


periapsis

by maledict



Category: VIXX
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Dissociation, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Paranoia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-28 04:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10823754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledict/pseuds/maledict
Summary: Behind her head, you see:A man in a red suit.





	periapsis

**Author's Note:**

> Something experimental while thinkin’ about LR. Based on the Beautiful Liar MV.

Behind her head, you see:

A man in a red suit.

A shock of silvery hair. Tan skin. Raw-red eyes. Tattoos on his hands and fingers. He has to be in a gang. Definitely a kkangpae, you think. You wonder why he’s there, and why he’s looking at you, and you try not to stare; she’s talking to you, and expecting you to respond. But your eyes keep slipping off of her face, over her shoulder, and her voice fades into background noise.

You never talked much in the first place. She understands this, or at least she did; she seems upset now that you can’t, or won’t, answer her.

She leaves, angry. You watch her go. The man is still there. He watches you watching her.

He watches you leave, too. He doesn’t follow (you make sure), but his eyes do, at least for a moment, and you imagine you can still feel his heavy gaze on you even when you’re turning the key in the lock on your apartment door and closing it behind you, barricading yourself inside, alone.

 

* * *

 

You see him sometimes, around town. He’s never doing much. Nothing _suspicious._ The same red suit. It must be his favorite color: the color of love, or death. You wonder if you should call the police; he’s never following you, explicitly, but it’s a big town, and you can’t help but worry. He’d looked right at you, that one time. That’s probably enough.

You shouldn’t be so suspicious. You’ll end up questioning everything.

 

* * *

 

Too late, you see him in your favorite coffee place. He’s already ordered, sitting in a soft dark corner: white hair, red shirt. You see him, but you don’t look at him. You feel his raw eyes on you, and your hands tremble when you give the barista your money. You wait for your latte with your back to him.

You leave, too, with your back to him still. You think about finding a new favorite coffee place. It wouldn't be a huge sacrifice. You like coffee so much it almost doesn’t matter where you get it—as long as it’s good. There are a lot of cafés in Seoul, but he'd picked yours.

Did he pick it because of you?

How did he know?

The latte is cold by the time you drink it. You still drink it. 

 

* * *

 

She stops talking to you for a while. You know it’s your fault. You’re not very good at this kind of thing, even now, as an adult. She’d told you something important, a week ago, but you didn’t respond the way she wanted, or expected, and she’s mad. She probably hates you. You don’t know how to make it up to her. You wonder if this is it. You’ve had friends—people—before, who got tired of you. She could have reached her limit.

It seems likely. You think about texting her to ask, but she might take it the wrong way. You might make it worse. Better not to do anything. It doesn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

You spend an hour in bed, doing nothing. You stare at the ceiling. Your lungs hurt. You think about her leaving, your only friend. You think about being alone.

  

* * *

 

Red is in season. A lot of people are wearing it, a lot of fashionable women in red coats and pumps, a lot of men with red belts and hats and shoes. It’s never the right—his—shade. But you find yourself looking, anyway.

You don’t really wear colors. Black is good, it’s flattering on everyone; you have black hair and pale skin and it works for you, everyone has told you, and they know better you do when it comes to those kinds of things. You try to follow trends, at least when you can afford them. Black never goes out of fashion. You have to try your best, in Seoul.

You don’t really want to be noticed. Yet you think about these things. Would the man in red look for you, like you look for him, if you stood out—would he be able to tell?

It’s a not a good thing, you remind yourself, for him to be looking for you. He’s a kkangpae. You don’t want to get mixed up in that. You don’t want to know him at all.

  

* * *

 

She ends up texting you. You agree to meet for lunch. You apologize, and she seems happy with it. Something like relief blooms in your chest, and you realize you were more anxious than you thought, about her abandoning you.

You’ve survived on your own before. You can do it again. But it hurts, so you want her to stay. You want to make an effort.

At lunch, you promise to text her more often. You want to genuinely try. You send her one right after she leaves, and she responds with a heart. It makes you feel like you’ve done something right. You can change.

 

* * *

 

You find a new coffee place. You’re carrying the cup in your hand on the subway, warm through the holder. It’s good coffee. It tastes sweet and thick. Not everything has to be so bitter.

You look up from your phone, sipping your coffee, and there he is.

He’s not looking at you, and then he is, like he felt your gaze land on him, a physical weight. Like you caught him on a fishhook. You flinch, but you can’t look away. His eyes still look raw, rawer still from the cold weather; his hair still a pale shaggy mess. His coat is red, too, and you wonder how you could’ve missed him when you’d stepped on, ten minutes ago.

Tattoos peek out from under his collar, on his hand where he grips the pole. He smiles, and you look away.

Your phone is in your hand. You could call the police, and they could be at the next stop. He’s distinctive. They could catch him. He’d leave you alone, then.

You’re frozen, your thumbs hovering over the screen. You hear the train doors open, and your chance is lost. You leave quickly, heart pounding.

 

* * *

 

You set your empty coffee cup down on a coaster on top of the piano. You arrange it so the logo faces outward. You could get a refill from the cafeteria if you wanted, but it wouldn’t be the same. School coffee doesn’t taste as good.

The kids today are louder than usual. Chuseok is coming up. They must be excited. Jaehwan leads them, tirelessly enthusiastic, in vocal warmups; you sit at the bench, playing scales. You like Jaehwan; he has the energy, the exuberance, you wish you did, but you are a person who cannot easily express things like that. Instead, you quietly follow his instruction—your fingers on the piano keys, at just the right measure, so the kids can perfect their parts. The choir always sounds good, and Jaehwan especially. He’s very talented.

He could be your friend. 

Couldn’t he?

You sing along, unheard in the deluge of young voices. Your fingers on the keys, pushing out strong, firm chords. The sound of the piano drowns you out, but you enjoy this. You forget about other things when you sing.

  

* * *

 

You send her a text asking if she’s eaten. She says no, and wants to have dinner with you. You don’t want to; you only asked to be polite, to keep her happy, because you promised. You don’t know how to tell her no. You say you’re busy practicing.

She doesn’t reply, which is both a relief and a heavy burden.

Suddenly, your small apartment feels even smaller. You decide to go out. You shrug on a coat against the cold, but the air bites at you, sharp. Seoul is built like a wind tunnel, and the autumn breeze is cutting.

You go to your new favorite coffee place and order your favorite drink. You sit in a corner, sipping your latte, and put in your earbuds. You listen to Park Hyoshin instead of the light bubbly songs in the café. You think about nothing in particular.

Someone sets a cup down at your table. You blink up to tell them you didn’t order anything, but the words die in your throat.

The man in red sits down. You’re frozen. You realize he must have seen the logo on your coffee cup that day on the train. He knew where to find you. He’s been following you. You should have called the police.

He says something. You don’t hear him, because Park Hyoshin is singing, beautifully. He reaches over the table and yanks the earbuds out of your ears.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he tells you, voice startlingly rusty and deep.

“Leave me alone,” is what comes out of your mouth. His laugh is strangely warm, like coffee.

“Even your voice is pretty,” he says.

The man in red leans back. His legs are spread open, nonchalant, while yours are crossed at the knee. He doesn’t try to hurt you. He doesn’t try to make you talk. He just sits there, and looks at you, and you let him.

  

* * *

 

_if you didn’t want to eat with me you could have just told me,_ she texts you. You look at this and feel a jagged stab of guilt. You wonder how she knows, and then she tells you: _i saw you at the café._

You cradle your phone in your hands for a long moment. It wasn’t like it was planned. You want to tell her this, but then you’d have to tell her about the man in red, and you don’t want to do that. You don’t want to talk to her at all. You ignore her texts and know that will just make it worse.

The man in red doesn’t own a phone. Or maybe he does, but you didn’t see him handle it once while you were talking—staring—watching him across the small table. He didn’t ask for your number. You feel inexplicably relieved about that; no obligation, no responsibility, not like her. But it makes you wonder. If it means he’s certain you’ll run into each other again.

Maybe he knows where you live. He could be certain you’ll meet again because he—because he’s watching you. He followed you to the café. He could—

You press a palm to your forehead. You shouldn’t think about things like that.

  

* * *

 

He isn’t a kkangpae. He can’t be. You’re not sure what he is. He doesn’t seem to have a job, but he must earn enough, somehow, to dye his hair regularly; his roots never show. Always that same shade of silver-white. You don’t know what to make of it. You’ve never met someone like him before.

You keep going to your new café. It’s not worth it to keep changing. He’ll just find you anyway.

You take a window seat. Soon enough, he sits down across from you.

_Stop following me._ It seems like a pointless request.

“Hyung,” he says, and you’re not sure you ever told him your age; did you tell him he could speak informally, too? “You should text her back.”

Your mouth tightens and you blink.

“What do you know,” you say, softly.

“I know you should text her back.” The man in red sips his latte. Your latte. “Right now.”

You stare at your phone. You don’t want to. Your chest knots up.

“I can do it,” he tells you. “Let me.”

You’re not sure what makes you hand over your phone. You do, and he taps something out, and hands it back. You—he—has sent: _noona, i’m sorry. let’s meet up. my treat._ You both hate him and are relieved when she texts back: _it’s ok. where?_

“You have to work harder,” he tells you. You know.

 

* * *

 

It’s easier this time. You have fun. She smiles and you smile back.

Like this, you think—maybe things will be okay.

She tries to tell you the important thing again.

You can’t look at her, suddenly. The volume dims, and your eyes slip away; you find yourself searching for a man in red. He could help you if he were here. He could help you.

“I just don’t know why it seems like you can’t accept it,” she tells you. You can tell she’s frustrated again, her voice thick, pained. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

You are, you tell her. You are her friend. You don’t know why you can’t act like it. You should be happy for her. She deserves to be happy, too.

"Call me when you get over yourself," she says. She leaves you there.

  

* * *

 

She stops talking to you again.

He’s not listening. You want to tear your hair out.

  

* * *

 

She gives you the invitation.

He follows you home.

  

* * *

 

He's leaning against the wall as you sit on your bed. “Let me do it,” he keeps telling you, but you know if you say yes, he'll ruin everything.

“Let me,” he says, his lips warm against your ear, your pulse fluttering beneath his hand.

“Let me!” he screams, shaking you by the shoulders.

His eyes are dark, and sad, and you want to shake it out of him, make him see sense.

“I can't,” you whisper. You can't. She's happier without you.

 

* * *

 

You feel strangely serene. He breaks the bowl you keep your keys in by flinging it against the wall. He sits at your kitchen table with his head in his hands. You reach out to touch his shoulder.

You never asked his name, but you knew what it was, all along.

“You’ll be alone,” he says.

“I'm not alone,” you tell him, or yourself. You're not sure. You don't know who you're trying to convince.

  

* * *

 

You think about not going. You think about deleting her number. It would be easier, to pretend she had never existed, that you had never been friends, that she never hurt you, that you never hurt her.

You can't. It's not fair to her. It's not fair at all. You sit at your kitchen table and stare at the invitation. She's leaving you. You need her more than she needs you—she doesn’t even need you at all. Not anymore. Did she ever? Does it matter?

It's an awful feeling. It makes you want to cry, but you don't. You hold it in, and press it into a little lump of pain, a new organ. The man in red sits across from you with his raw eyes, watching you, judging you.

“Go,” he tells you.

You could do it. If you just _talked_ to her.

“Go!” he yells.

She wouldn't miss you. She has someone else. Someone better.

His hands around your neck. His body above yours. “If you don't, I will,” he says. Fear washes over you. You can't let him. You grab him, wrap yourself around him, arms and legs both. He fights, but you're stronger. You hold him, gasping into his chest. The little lump of pain you made thumps unsteadily, like a second heart.

You can't do it. He's disappointed in you. His fingers dig into your skull. You don't know how long you stay like this, clutching at him, holding him back. You can't do it. You can't let him do it for you.

“Coward,” you tell him.

  

* * *

 

You sit at your kitchen table. You don't go. You see pictures on her SNS. She looks so happy with him. She doesn't speak to you anymore.

It's your fault, and you know it. It's ruined. You did it yourself.

The man in red stays. He says he's not going to leave. He says he's here forever.

  

* * *

 

You sit at his kitchen table.

Yours, now, too. In a way.

  

* * *

 

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

His hand around your throat.

Your hand around his throat.

He is your demon, this sore red thing inside you that you put behind bars. You made him, and now you have to live with him. You need him. Otherwise you are just a shell. You are nothing, with no one.

You remember what you told him when you first met. You wish you'd never said it.

He touches your face. You tilt your head up to him. “I need you,” you whisper. Are you that pathetic, to beg someone who’s not really there? You're probably crazy, but you see him, feel him so vividly, so he must exist, somehow. Even if it's just for you.

“Yes, you do,” he says. You cling to him, put your head against his stomach.

He feels real. His hands, fingers, nail-bitten, thin, feel real. His skin, marked, inked, feels real beneath your touch. You trace lines, lines on lines, on pictures, wonder what they mean, why you put them there.

“Let me,” he says, against your lips. His mouth feels real, too.

He lets you.

 


End file.
